


The Lonely Hearts Dance

by Amaria_Anna_D



Category: Captain America (Comics), Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Ableism, Alternate Universe - Historical, Disability, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Period Typical Attitudes, World War II, deafness, polio
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-13
Updated: 2019-03-16
Packaged: 2019-11-16 11:55:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18093818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amaria_Anna_D/pseuds/Amaria_Anna_D
Summary: Steve Rogers has felt like he's been drifting through his life without any real connections ever since his mother died years earlier. He has friends in the Deaf community and a job that keeps him fed and clothed. He knows he shouldn't want for more, but he does. He wants closeness and a companionship that he can't quite describe. He certainly isn't expecting to find a man that fills that void being beaten senseless in a back alley.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> First things first, Entropyrose and procnesflight for being my amazingly supportive betas through this process. Also, I can't say enough about the amazingly talented Wilfling for the incredible artwork companion to this piece. All of them have been nothing but kind and gracious through my many breakdowns over this fic.

Steve was tired in the way that made his whole body droop as he shuffled back to the flophouse he lived in. His muscles ached from a long day at the docks, and he had little to look forward to the next day except more of the same. Still, Steve had to remind himself that he was lucky—he had a job, a place to stay, and more often than not, a full stomach. It didn’t matter that his job was menial and back breaking or that his room was little more than a cot and a nightstand inside four cracking plaster walls. He’d learned early in life to be thankful for what he had and to try to block out the bitterness of what he didn’t have. Some days, he did better on that front than others. That particular day was cold and rainy, adding to the struggle to not dwell on the downside. Maybe, he mused, tonight would be a good night to stop out at Butch’s Diner for a burger. It had been a long while since he’d treated himself, and he had a fair few coins stashed away. The thought of a thick, hot beef patty and juicy tomato made his mouth water and added a little more pep to his step as he walked.

Tucking his hands in his pockets, Steve let his eyes drift a bit to the scenes unfolding around him. Mostly, he passed other men with their lunchboxes in hand heading home after a long day of hard work. The majority of them were wearing coveralls or worn denim much like his own. White collar types didn’t usually live near these particular blocks. A few of the faces he even recognized—some he’d worked odd jobs with at one time or another and others he knew just from crossing paths six days a week. He spotted the newspaper stand on the corner closing up for the evening and gave the old man who ran it a cordial nod. Though he’d been buying a paper from the man at least once a week for the past few years, he still didn’t know the man’s name. A little further down the street, there were a group of women huddling under their umbrellas. One of them leaned into her friends to whisper, giving him coquettish looks as he passed. He knew all too well how quickly those looks would fade away if she realized he was deaf as a post, but he wasn’t in the mood to pull out his pad and strike up a conversation anyway, so he tipped his hat ever so slightly the girls and kept walking.

The shabby boarding house Steve currently called home was butted tightly between two other crumbling buildings at the end of the block. His imagination had long ago decided that if even so much as a brick were to fall from the outer tenements, all three would end up in a heap of rubble. Who knew, it might even improve the look of the place. As it was, the front steps to his building were missing sizable chunks here and there and there was a tear in the weathered, old blue awning above. The inside wasn’t much better. A musty odor assailed his nose as he crossed the threshold, and the bare light bulb above flickered ominously as it dangled from the cord. Pulling himself up all three flights of stairs, he opened the door to his narrow little room.

Steve stripped off his sopping coveralls and hung them on a peg on the wall. His shirt and pants below weren’t too much drier, but he reasoned he was going back out into the rain anyway. Looking longingly at the bed, he toyed with the idea of laying down just to give his back and legs a break. The only thing that convinced him not to was the thought of coming back to damp sheets and pillows waiting for him. Instead, he pried up a loose floorboard with his knife to reveal a coffee can half filled with change and a few bills. He took a moment to inspect the weight of it, just in case someone had caught onto his hiding hole. The door to his room had a broken lock, and no matter how many times he’d written Mr. O’Connell a note about it, the damn thing had never been fixed. Pulling just enough for his meal from the can, Steve tucked the money in his pocket and headed straight back out the door once his can was again secured.

On the way down the stairs, he noticed Mrs. O’Connell coming out of her door looking sour as ever. The landlord and his wife were both notoriously grouchy and stingy as could be when it came to keeping up to their responsibilities around the building. There hadn’t been hot water in the shared hall bathroom in nearly a year, and that—like Steve’s door lock—was very unlikely to change anytime soon. In fact, the only thing the couple wasn’t lax on was collecting their rent money. Fixing Steve with a watery-eyed glare, she hooked a finger at him like he was a delinquent school boy. 

Gritting his teeth, Steve stepped forward dutifully and tried to paste on a polite smile.

“RENT TOMORROW, DUMMY!” she hollered slowly. He was far beyond letting the unkind moniker work beneath his skin, but the fact that she was probably screaming loud enough that the whole block heard her annoyed him to no end. Adding on that she was emphasizing every word and pulling her face in strange directions, she was also making it infinitely harder for Steve to understand. If he wasn’t so used to her by now, he’d probably be at a loss, but this one sentence was all that she ever spared for him, making her words easy to predict. She obviously thought his brains and ears must have been damaged together by the fever.

He nodded and mimed putting money in her hand. Years ago, he might have written a sarcastic note about having never been late on rent in the entire six years he’d lived there, but he was far too old (at least he felt old) and tired to argue with the woman.

Convinced that her message had gotten through, she crossed her sagging arms over her chest and turned on her heel.

Steve rolled his eyes at her turned back before continuing on. As a boy, his exasperated expressions had gotten him in more trouble than he could remember. He might not be able to speak clearly enough for the back alley bullies to understand his insults, but his crossed eyes and rude gestures sure said volumes for him. His mother had patched him up probably a hundred times after he’d taken on the lot of them on his own. It wasn’t until his teen years sent him a near impossible growth spurt that he’d won a fight, and even then, he’d often received as good as he’d given. His attitude also didn’t win him any points with the school teachers either. Between having his hands rapped with a switch for signing rather than using his voice and showing his blatant disapproval for the way the classes were taught, it was a wonder Steve had managed ten grades. These days, though, he’d mostly learned to keep his head down and his nose clean. He couldn’t afford to lose his job or his place to stay, so he left the burning coals of his temper deep in his gut.

Still simmering from his encounter with his landlady, Steve slumped his way back down the street, ignoring the rain as he went. He was about half way to Butch’s when something shiny swung across the corner of his eye under the lamp light. Pausing, he glanced into the darkened alley to see two men kicking the crap out of a third. Their victim was using one hand to hold himself up against the wall and the other to swing a garbage can lid to protect himself. With a swift kick to his legs, the larger assailant sent their target sprawling to the ground where the other man joined in putting his boots to the fallen man’s ribs. The smart move would have been to keep walking, but Steve just couldn’t do it, he couldn’t let the pair literally kick a man who was down.

While intelligible words were beyond Steve’s vocal skills, he’d long ago learned the value of a loud shout as a distraction. He let out a cry as he barreled into the alley, launching himself at the bigger thug who went flying. The smaller one stopped dead in his tracks and just stared at Steve. Not one to ignore an opening, Steve sent the guy stumbling with one good punch to the jaw. By then the first man was back on his feet, falling into a John Dempsey stance. He was burlier in the chest and arms than Steve, but he was also shorter and slower. Steve was easily able to dodge the few blows the man shelled out and pummel his opponent with better ones of his own. When the large man fell backwards again, his little friend grabbed him by the elbow and pulled him away. The pair shuffled out of the alley with bloody noses and perhaps a black eye or two while Steve stood largely unscathed. His chest was still heaving for air after the fight when he noticed the man on the ground struggling to crawl.

Dropping to his knees, Steve helped the stranger into a sitting position. He was dark haired and pale skinned with a piercing stare that shone with rage in the dim lamplight. Even with a shiner blooming and his full lips split, he was handsome as sin. His lips began to move, but he was wiping the blood away from his face at the same time, obscuring his mouth from Steve’s gaze. When Steve didn’t answer, he tried again—still not giving a good enough look at his lips. His eyes lit on Steve’s face, and Steve pointed at his ears, shaking his head. The other man let his hand fall away from his face and spoke one more time. “Deaf?” he asked.

Steve nodded.

Giving him a smile that probably hurt like hell, the stranger repeated his earlier words. “Thank you.”

For lack of anything else, Steve nodded once more.

He moved to help the man to his feet, but was pushed away. He stared down in confusion for a minute before the dark haired man gestured to an object further back in the pile of trash. Realization dawned as he picked up the object—it was a forearm crutch. Steve turned back and held up two fingers then one, hoping the man understood. Thankfully, he did, holding up two fingers in response. It took a minute scanning the darkened corners before he found the second crutch. Unfortunately, it wasn’t going to be much use as it was cracked in half. He handed both to their owner who was more than a little upset. He tossed the broken crutch back to the rubbish heap angrily, and accepted Steve’s help back to his feet.

As he stood, Steve discerned two things: the first being that the man’s legs didn’t bend at all as he was hauled up, and the second that there was no way he was going far on one crutch. Steve motioned between them with his free hand and then made his fingers walk towards the streets.

His companion hesitated and then nodded, but Steve could see the shame clouding his eyes even in the dim light. If he could speak worth a damn, he would have told him that there was nothing wrong with needing help every now and again, but Steve hadn’t been able to talk well enough that anyone other than his Ma understood him since he’d been six. He’d stopped talking to anyone else besides her before he was ten, and she had died nearly seven years ago. Steve wasn’t sure he even cared to try again after that. The only people he had actual conversations with were also Deaf. 

While he had to have some sort of communication with hearing folks, he’d never been all that bothered that it was done by a pad and pen. Why did this man matter any more than any of the rest? The question was pushed to the back of his mind as he felt the man beside him shift his hold on Steve’s arm.

They walked out into the street with Steve taking most of the man’s weight as he used his crutch both to steady himself and direct them towards his home. Thankfully, he didn’t live far away. His building was one of the ones that bordered the squalid part of the street from the livable part. Unlike Steve’s, the building was well kept and there were even a pair of potted tuilips that flanked the little porch. Inside the trend of cleanliness and upkeep continued. The stranger’s door was only a few steps from the entrance, and Steve couldn’t say he wasn’t relieved by that fact.

The apartment revealed behind the door—which even had a functioning lock—was on the smaller side but still at least five times over Steve’s little room. The kitchen alone was a wonder. He hadn’t lived anywhere with a functioning kitchen since his mother died when he was eighteen. Pointing with his crutch, the man gestured to the connecting sitting area where a wheelchair was tucked into a corner. Steve averted his gaze while the other man arranged his legs on the footrests. It seemed rude to watch. His eyes landed on a pair of desks pushed up against the wall. One was angled upright with a few unfinished sketches while the other held a typewriter, a cup full of pencils, and a small radio. Steve’s first instinct was to inspect the drawings, but he didn’t think that was polite either.

A tap on his arm got his attention, and Steve watched as the other man wheeled himself to the desk, grabbing a memo pad and pencil. After quickly scratching out a note, he handed it to Steve.

**Thanks for your help in the alley and the way here. My name is Bucky Barnes,** the note read.

Steve accepted the pencil and added his name right below Bucky’s before offering his free hand. Bucky’s grip was firm, but he didn’t try to mangle Steve’s fingers to prove a point. When he let go, Steve continued on in writing:  **I’m happy to help. I don’t like bullies much.**

Bucky grinned widely then winced. In the well lit apartment, his face looked much more battered than it had in the alley. His cheek and jaw were blackening same as his left eye. Steve didn’t even want to think about how bad the damage had to be beneath his clothes. As if reading Steve’s mind, Bucky reached for the pad.

**Mind making yourself at home while I clean up?**

Steve shook his head, and Bucky gestured to both the kitchen chairs and couch, indicating he didn’t care where his guest waited. Steve chose the comfortable looking couch.

Once he was alone in the room, Steve’s eyes were again roaming. He should have just made his excuses and headed for the door. There really wasn’t much point in staying. Bucky seemed alright on his own, and Steve’s stomach was protesting in the delay in his dinner already.

Still, it was nice to talk to someone even if it was only notes on a memo pad. Steve spent most of his days and nights on his own. The only real conversation he had on a regular basis the Deaf functions in the church basement every month and with the two other Deaf guys at the dock—the latter of which was done discreetly when no one was looking. The foreman along with some of the other men stared suspiciously anytime the trio was caught signing. Jobs were hard to come by even these days for Deaf men and ones that paid as well as the docks did even more so. It wasn’t worth the risk. Instead of chatting at work, they met up every other week or so at a local bar with a handful of other fellas. That was the entire sum of Steve’s social life these days. As pathetic as it seemed, he was just desperate enough for human interaction that he’d wait in a stranger’s living room to get a few minutes of companionship.

It took Bucky a good twenty minutes to emerge from one of the rooms off to the side. This time, Steve let himself take his time looking Bucky over. His hair was slicked back and slightly damp around the temples, and he’d taken the time to wipe away the majority of the blood from his face. In the well lit room, he was a thousand times more handsome than he’d appeared in the alley. Strong, well sculpted cheekbones and jaw made the lushness of his lips stand out even more. His eyes were deeply set and a piercing shade that was an icy mix of blue than gray. Letting his gaze drift downward subtlety, Steve noted that while Bucky’s legs were rail thin, his chest and arms were broad and muscled. He didn’t slump in the chair the way Steve had seen some cripples do, either. Bucky’s posture was straight and tall, giving the impression that while he sat in the wheelchair, it didn’t own him. Suddenly, Steve’s fingers itched for his drawing pencils and sketch pad. He wanted to draw Bucky just as he was now—a little battered, but still strong and defiant.

Bucky gestured suddenly for the pad that Steve still had sitting on the couch beside him, and Steve felt his cheeks go a little warm at having stared for so long.

**Polio when I was ten,** Bucky wrote, obviously assuming that Steve had been wondering about his handicap.

Steve nodded and took up the pencil.  **Scarlet fever when I was six.**

**I owe you one for saving my ass back there. Think a warmed up beef and gravy sandwich will suffice for now?**

**You don’t need to feed me. I have enough to buy my own dinner. You don’t owe me anything,** Steve wrote hurriedly. He wondered if Bucky assumed he was hard up. A lotta folks thought since he was deaf that he couldn’t possibly make a living. The assumption always stung Steve’s pride worse than the iodine his Ma used to use on his cuts as a kid.

Bucky quirked an eyebrow and rolled his eyes after reading the note.  **Don’t be a punk. Let me with a little dignity.**

Steve couldn’t help the laughter that spilled out of him. He held up his hands in an “if you say so” gesture.

With little else to do, he followed Bucky into the kitchen and stood awkwardly in the doorway while the dark haired man pulled a few things from the icebox. Once again, it struck Steve that Bucky was almost graceful in the way he moved around in his chair—something he’d not have thought possible before. Then again, Steve had to admit that a large part of his fascination had nothing to do with the way the man moved and more to do with how strikingly beautiful he was. It wasn’t the first time that Steve had been attracted to another man, and it certainly wouldn’t be the last. Rather, it was just something that he knew was best buried deep under his hat. His attraction was easier to handle if he told himself it was purely for the sake of his drawings.

A few minutes later, Bucky held out a plate loaded high with thick slices of toast topped with beef and gravy. There were even a few canned green beans along the side. The scent of the savory meal made Steve’s knees a little weak as he accepted it. His longing for a burger was replaced the second he took a bite of the succulent, tender meat. The last time he’d had roast beef this good had been when his Ma was still alive and he’d managed to get a few days work unloading crates. Steve had to hold himself back from wolfing down the whole plate in seconds. Across from him, Bucky was giving him a slightly amused look.

“Good?” he asked, with a grin that said he knew damn well it was.

Steve nodded and pointed a questioning finger to Bucky.

**My sister,** he wrote on the pad.  **Becky’s husband’s in the Pacific so she likes to come by and coddle me instead. Not that I’m complaining too much.**

They ate the rest of the meal in companionable silence, and Steve stacked the plates in the sink when they were done. Again, he realized he should probably be making his excuses but Bucky put on a pot of coffee. Steve idly wondered if maybe Bucky could sense just how lonely Steve was. The thought was both tender and embarrassing at the same time. The pair settled in the living room again with steaming mugs of coffee. 

Motioning around the room and then making an “a-okay” gesture, Steve was once again comparing the neat, spacious apartment to his hovel.

Bucky grinned proudly.  **Thanks. I’m looking for a roommate if you or anyone you know is interested. My friend got his orders a couple weeks back, and I haven’t had time to post an add just yet.**

**How much?** Steve asked.  Part of him was already lost in the daydream of him actually living in such a swell place, but the question was more just curiosity than anything. He knew damn well already that he couldn’t afford something this nice, and that Bucky would probably prefer a hearing roommate anyway.

**Fifteen bucks a month plus a cut on groceries. I shaved a bit off because I need a hand carrying in groceries and things like that every now and again. The bedroom is shared, but the beds are real nice, and the bath is private with good hot water.**

Steve blinked at the price and read over it all twice. He currently paid twelve a month for his room, and fifteen wouldn’t be that much of a stretch really. There absolutely  _ had _ to be a catch somewhere. What he was reading was just too perfect.

**You wouldn’t mind a deaf roommate?** He asked with a knot in his throat

Bucky shook his head with amusement.  **You mind living with a cripple? Go on back and take a look around. If you like the place and want to move in, I’m sure we can work things out as we go.**

Steve’s knees felt a little shaky as he stood. He was still waiting for the other boot to drop and kick him squarely in the ass. His Ma used to say that if he didn’t have bad luck, he wouldn’t have any at all. It seemed too good to be true that he would find a guy in an alley who would end up needing a roommate in a near perfect apartment that he could actually afford. The turn of the cards seemed almost surreal to him.

The bedroom that Bucky had mentioned they would be sharing was near once and half over the size of his whole place. A pair of twin beds were pushed against either wall with a nightstand beside each. There was a sizable closet and a massive chest of drawers, as well. The room looked damn inviting, and Steve felt himself blush just a bit at the thought of sleeping so close to Bucky. He turned the corner, pushing the thought away. Like the bedroom, the bathroom looked like a damn palace next to what Steve was used to. There was a big cast iron tub and shower combo that looked so clean it could be new except for the marks along the side that were suspiciously around the same height as Bucky’s chair. Steve also noticed there was a bar bolted to the wall in the shower and one near the toilet as well.

On his way back to the living room, Steve’s heart was pounding in his chest. Could he really live here? With Bucky? Other than his Ma, he’d always lived on his own. Would it be strange sharing space with another person? And would it be awkward if that person was someone that Steve found himself attracted to? He bit his lip as he emerged from the hall. There was a reckless spark in him that said it was worth the risk. As Bucky’s gaze met his, he decided to go for it and gave a firm nod.


	2. Chapter 2

Part 2

Mr. O’Connell was none too happy when Steve presented him a note saying he was leaving rather than the rent money the next morning. The man sputtered and railed at Steve for a good ten minutes—not that he even bothered to try and read the irate man’s lips. Steve had never signed a lease and knew that there was nothing the decrepit, old coot could do to him for leaving. Bucky had been a bit surprised that Steve was ready to move in so soon, but hadn’t protested when Steve asked if he move his things in after his next shift at the docks. He had already packed up his one and only suitcase and had the box of his mother’s things he kept ready to go the evening before. In fact, he’d come home straight after Bucky’s and collected his things—not much of a task.

On his way down the street, Steve felt like he was walking on air despite the heavy box and case he carried. He remembered his Ma humming and singing to herself when she was particularly happy, and he imagined this would be one of those times he’d be doing the same. Leaving the shabby apartment building behind him almost felt like a fresh start. It felt like hope when for so long Steve had only known drudgery. He knew it didn’t change the fact that he worked like a dog on the docks, nor did it mean that he had much of anything to his name. But maybe he didn’t have to feel so alone in his life. He didn’t imagine that Bucky would become a close friend, but simply having someone else’s presence after a long day would feel nice.

He made it to his new home in what felt like no time flat, and he was lucky enough that his arrival was timed for the exact moment another man was entering the building. Ducking in behind his new neighbor, Steve felt like there were a hundred hummingbirds—they were too damned big to be butterflies—in his stomach as he entered the building. Part of him was now wondering if he had made a terrible mistake, but it was too late to do anything besides set his suitcase on the ground and knock on the door.

It took a few minutes before the door opened, and Steve had been about to knock again when Bucky opened the door. He grinned up at Steve, sweeping the suitcase in his lap and backing up to let Steve in. “Welcome home,” he said making sure that he kept his lips in full view.

The hummingbirds in Steve’s gut went wild at the sight those perfect lips curling upwards to greet him. All Steve could do was smile back. He was almost glad that Bucky wouldn’t expect a reply. He’d make a damn fool of himself for sure.

“Let’s take your stuff back,” Bucky suggested, not surrendering the suitcase as Steve expected. He kept it in his lap and didn’t seem to be bothered by it as he wheeled himself back the hall.

Bucky laid the suitcase on the bed that he assumed would be his and then motioned to the closet. More than half of it was was cleared out for Steve’s use, and he then noticed that the top two drawers of the dresser were open and empty as well. Everything he owned wouldn’t take up a quarter of the space Bucky had cleared for him, but he was thankful for it nonetheless. His roommate left him to his own devices while he unpacked. Steve hung his Sunday suit and his coveralls, relegating the rest of his clothes to the drawers. He spared Bucky’s things hanging in the closet a glance as he worked. There wasn’t a lot in there, but what there was looked like each cost more than all of Steve’s threadbare garments combined. Once again, Steve felt a little out of place. He hurried up and shoved the box of his mother’s things on the unoccupied top shelf in the closet and tucked his coffee can behind it.

In the kitchen, Bucky was standing, leaning heavily on the counter as he stirred a pot on the stove. He looked wobbly enough that Steve wanted to take the spoon from him, but resisted the urge. He knew how awful it felt when folks that went out of their way to “help” him, and he didn’t imagine it would be something that Bucky would enjoy anyway. Instead he sat at the table with his notepad out, just in case Bucky felt inclined to chat as he had the night before. It didn’t take very long before Bucky sat back down in his chair and made his way to the empty side of the table.

He gave Steve a long look before speaking. “You read lips pretty well.”

It could have been either a statement or question, but Steve chose the former and shrugged his response.  **Some people are easier than others. It’s not perfect no matter what. I miss a good many words, but I can get by.**

“Would it be easier for me to write?”

**Most of the time.**

Bucky nodded and reached for the pencil.  **Whatever works for you, pal. I should tell you that I’m a writer by trade, and I can get pretty long winded sometimes.**

Steve grinned.  **I noticed the typewriter. What do you write?**

**Everything. Mostly for pulp magazines and funny books, but I’ve been working on a novel in my free time. I don’t have set hours for any of it, though. You may be getting up in the morning, and I’ll still be writing from the night before. I’ll try not to be a pain in the ass about it.** Bucky looked a little sheepish as he watched Steve reading it.

**You won’t bother me. I could sleep through a German invasion so long as they don’t turn on any lights.**

Bucky laughed. Steve’s stomach immediately began back flips at the way it lit up his handsome face and stunning eyes.

The rest of the night went by peacefully. Bucky served them each up a hearty bowl of a thick bean soup that tasted pretty decent. They did the dishes together. Steve washed and Bucky dried, showing Steve where the cookware and dishes went as they worked. Once again, it struck Steve how nice it felt simply to be in the same room, working side by side with another person. It didn’t matter that they were practically strangers. For the first time since his Ma died, Steve felt a bit of the ebbing loneliness that had settled upon him fading away. Every now and again, he’d slyly look at Bucky from the corner of his eye and marvel at his good luck.

Afterward, Bucky excused himself to the typewriter—he had a deadline coming for one of his magazines. He’d invited Steve to help himself to the books and magazines neatly tucked into a shelving unit so full it was bowing in the middle, and Steve didn’t have to be told twice. Reading was one of his favorite things to do, not that he got to read much aside from the paper these days. He had a couple of battered old books of his own and a couple of volumes of Irish poetry he’d kept that had belonged to his mother, but he hadn’t had the extra dough to pick up any new books in a very long time. In fact, the loss of the school’s library had been the one thing he’d really missed when he left just after the tenth grade. To him, the crowded shelves in the living room were practically a treasure trove. He spied some titles that he’d read before as well as a few famous classics, but he was thoroughly impressed that so many of them looked like brand new. He pulled one from the shelf and perused it for a moment before settling on the couch.

Steve wasn’t sure how long he had read for when his eyes began to droop. He yawned and stretched out his arms, sparing Bucky a glance. His roommate was still hunched over his desk with his fingers moving feverishly over the keys. He’d slipped out of his suspenders and rolled up his sleeves at some point. Steve couldn’t help but marvel at Bucky’s long fingers and as they moved. He wondered if he could get away with sketching Bucky some evening while he worked. As if sensing he was being watched, Bucky cast a glance over his shoulder.

Feeling like he’d been caught dipping his finger into his mother’s sugar bowl, he grinned and pointed to the book, giving a thumbs up.

“I liked it, too,” Bucky said.

Steve closed the book and pointed to the bedroom.

Bucky nodded. “Good night.”

Without thinking, Steve signed _“good night”_ in response then mentally kicked himself. Not only did Bucky not sign, but he knew most hearing people looked down on signing in general. He’d gotten a lot of side eyes for it over the years—enough that he was cautious about where he signed.

Instead of giving Steve a dirty look though, Bucky turned his chair fully to face Steve and repeated the motions. His form was off, but the act stunned Steve. It stunned Steve so much that it took Bucky trying again and asking “is that ‘good night’?” for him to get his head out of his ass. Steve nodded and guided Bucky’s hands into the correct position for “night.” He made the signs once more. This time Bucky’s movements were slow but precise. It touched a place deep down inside of Steve that hadn’t felt much but empty in too many years. His chest ached with the feeling. Aside from his mother and his childhood best friend, no one had ever tried to learn a single sign on his behalf. It was almost too much.

Bucky said something, but Steve missed it entirely. Without so much as a second thought, Bucky grabbed the tablet and wrote out a note.  **I suppose sign language would be a good thing for me to learn.**

**If you want, but you don’t have to. It takes a lot of practice,** Steve added, feigning indifference. He wanted to beg Bucky to learn to sign. The idea of living with someone he could easily communicate with once again was almost like holding a canteen just above the outstretched hands of a man dying of thirst. He wanted it so badly his insides ached, but he knew it wasn’t exactly easy to learn, and it was a lot to ask of someone he just met.

Reading over Steve’s response, Bucky quirked a brow at him.  **Better that than going through a whole forest worth of paper to talk.**

Steve let out a chuckle and nodded. He didn’t know what else to say, so he signed  _ good night  _ once more and went to bed.

In the morning, Steve woke with the first rays of dawn coming through the window. He’d learned long ago to wake himself early. A lot of guys could be late every now and again, but Steve knew that the dock foreman wouldn’t extend that courtesy to him, so he’d worked hard to always be early. He yawned and rubbed at his eyes. When he sat up, he noticed that the bed across from him hadn’t been slept in. Steve quickly dressed and headed out to the living room.

Bucky was still at his writing desk, but his hands were tucked beneath his head as he slept. Apparently, Bucky hadn’t been kidding when he’d said he worked through the night sometimes. Steve winced when he imagined how Bucky’s back was going to feel when he eventually did wake. Trying his best to step lightly, Steve made his way to the kitchen and set on a pot of coffee. After downing a cup of his own, he poured a second and headed to his sleeping friend. He touched Bucky’s shoulder lightly. The dark haired main started awake and then looked up at Steve with bleary eyes. He blinked a few times before he smiled and wiped a hand across his face.

“Thanks.”

Steve nodded and handed over the coffee.  _ Good morning,  _ he signed slowly and deliberately. He told himself that Bucky’s interest in learning to sign was just a token gesture, but it couldn’t hurt to try.

Setting aside the mug, Bucky mirrored the signs back to him perfectly with a sleepy grin. He eyed the clock on the desk before reaching for their ever present pad.  **Want me to throw together breakfast before you go?**

Shaking his head, Steve motioned to the clock and then to the door with a frown.

Steve made it to work with plenty of time, as usual. He grabbed his time card from the slot and clocked in just as the hour struck. Punching in early was not allowed, but there would have been hell to pay for being more than a minute late. As if he was expecting one of the workers to be late—maybe even hoping they would be—the foreman, Brock Rumlow was waiting with his shoulder against the doorway with a bored expression. He gave Steve an icy stare down as he passed by him on his way out to the pier.

Rumlow was probably one of Steve’s least favorite people with only Hitler and Mussolini beating him for the title. He’d taken over the foreman post about a year after Steve had started working on the docks and wasted no time making it clear that he didn’t think much of the men that worked under him—the Deaf ones even less. Men had their pay docked or were fired for the tiniest infractions, though the firings had slowed since there was a definite lack in able bodied men to fill the posts. Rumlow seemed to delight in being cruel and callous whenever the opportunity cropped up. If she were alive, Steve’s mother would have probably reminded him that Rumlow’s nastiness would eventually earn him his comeuppance, but at the moment, that didn’t seem too likely. To the men under his boot, Rumlow looked damn untouchable.

The day went like almost every other day on the docks since Steve had started working there. He spent his hours moving crates and stacking boxes. It was monotonous, back breaking work, but it paid well enough. To make the days go by quicker, he often let his mind drift elsewhere. Normally, that meant to distant lands that he’d read about in books or even to fight in the front—where he was convinced he really should be anyway—but that day he sent his mind back to his new apartment and to Bucky. In his mind’s eye, he could clearly see Bucky typing away at his desk. When dream Bucky noticed Steve’s entrance, though he turned with a blinding smile and in perfect sign greeted him. They shared a blistering kiss before they settled at the dinner table to talk easily about their days over a hot meal. The daydream warmed Steve right through even as the winds whipped over the docks and straight through his coveralls. It almost felt like he could endure most anything so long as he had that particular dream lodged in his brain. By the end of his shift, his back was aching and his joints felt frozen stiff, but he wasn’t in a particularly bad mood by any rate.

On his way out, another one of the other deaf men, Clint caught his attention with a wry smile.  _ Find a girl last night?  _ He asked as soon as they were out of sight of most of their coworkers.

Steve felt his cheeks burn just a little. He would have hoped that his friend didn’t notice, but Clint was notoriously sharp-eyed. Steve shook his head and averted his gaze.

Clint elbowed him and arched a brow.  _ You smiled all day like my son does after sneaking into his mom’s sugar. Something happened last night. _

_ Moved into a new apartment,  _ Steve told him.  _ It’s a nice place. _

_ Anywhere is nicer than that shit hole you called home before. _

The older man let the issue drop and moved on to their usual daily routine of mocking Rumlow and some of the other hearing men.

When Steve finally made it home, he was startled to see a buxom brunette standing at the stove. Freezing with the door knob still in his hand, he wondered if he had somehow entered the wrong apartment despite the fact that his key turned in the lock. The woman looked up at him with a warm smile, and in that instant, he absolutely knew that she was Bucky’s sister, Becca. He’d been spending way too much time looking at lips nearly identical to hers to be uncertain.

“Hello. You must be Steve,” she said, not letting so much as a hint of hesitance show as she spoke.

He nodded and gave a small wave.

She used the wooden spoon in her grasp to point to the pot. “I hope you like chicken and dumplings.”

Again he nodded. Between the scent and the thought of soft, pillowy dumplings his mouth was fairly watering. He could remember the anticipation of waiting for those rare Sundays they could afford such a feast. As a boy, he’d always sat at the table while his ma worked, enjoying the aroma nearly as much as the meal. He wondered if Becca would mind him sketching in the kitchen while she finished up.

Only then did Steve notice that Bucky wasn’t at either the kitchen table or at his desk. His concern must have shown on his face, because Becca laid her palms together and pretended to rest her face on them. “Sleeping,” she said aloud for good measure.

He pointed towards the bathroom and mimed washing his hands.

On his way back the hall, Steve noticed the cracked bedroom door. There was enough of a gap that he was able to see Bucky stretched out on his stomach on the bed. Only bare shoulders and tousled hair were visible from beneath the covers. It wasn’t much, but the sight of Bucky’s muscular back was enough to send a jolt of lust through Steve. The attractions that he’d had in the past had always been fleeting things, and he’d been careful to keep his distance from anyone who’d intrigued him before. It simply wasn’t worth the risk to make a mistake, and there had never seemed much point in torturing himself if it was never going to happen anyway. But here he was: on the other side of the doorway, Bucky was less than ten feet away. If this particular living arrangement wasn’t going to be a special type of torment, Steve wasn’t sure what was.

Steve scrubbed at the dirt beneath his nails a bit harsher than usual and hurried back to the kitchen.

He watched for a moment as Becca flitted around the kitchen with the hurried grace of a hummingbird moving from flower to flower in a garden. With her hair slipping out of its pins, she looked very much of a woman enjoying a task that many would call burdensome. It wasn’t the forced cheer that he’d seen in so many ads for this or that product, but the genuine joy of creating. Before Steve knew it, he had done three small sketches of Becca. Two were of the image as it was in reality, but the third had his subject adorned with delicate wings upon her back. He wished he still had the set of colored art pencils his mother had given him for their last Christmas together, but they had been worn down to nubs ages ago with the remains tucked inside the little box of keepsakes. Just as he was wondering if it would be alright to dip into his savings just a bit for another set, he suddenly felt the sensation of being watched.

With Becca’s eyes still on her task, he turned and saw Bucky sitting just behind him with a strange look upon his face. The dark haired man bit his lip like a little boy who’d be caught doing something naughty. “Beautiful,” he said, looking Steve straight in the eye.

Steve grinned. Something inside of himself was basking in Bucky’s attention like a cat stretched out in a sunlit windowsill. He should have been irritated with just how much he enjoyed seeing appreciation in Bucky’s eyes. After all, it wasn’t  _ that _ kind of appreciation, and it would be too risky even if it was. Thankfully, he didn’t have to wait long for a distraction.

Bucky’s voice must have caught Becca’s attention. In a flash, she was standing over Steve’s shoulder too. She spoke too fast for Steve to catch much of what she said, but her wide smile and pleased blush explained it all well enough. Tearing the paper out, Steve handed the sheet of paper to her, earning himself an exuberant hug from Becca and a long, undecipherable look from Bucky.

Dinner that night went by quickly. Becca wrote Steve several notes asking questions about his life and his family. He answered politely, but without much detail. In return, Steve found out that Becca’s husband, John, was in the Pacific and that Becca and Bucky still had parents and two younger siblings living in Brooklyn. The written conversation took a chunk of time out of the meal, but Steve found he didn’t mind all that much. What he did mind, though, was that through it all Bucky seemed distant. He picked at his food and only smiled when his sister glanced his way.

Bucky excused himself straightaway after dinner and wheeled straight back the hall to the bedroom. Becca must have noticed his glum expression.  **His back and legs have been bothering him. He won’t likely tell you, but he has just awful cramps and muscle spasms.**

Steve nodded and busied himself clearing the dishes. He wanted to ask if there was anything that could be done, but it seemed like the kind of thing he should be asking Bucky instead of his sister. Part of him even admitted that it probably wasn’t something Becca should have shared without her brother’s approval

The light was on when Steve came to bed, but Bucky’s eyes were firmly shut. He wasn’t sleeping, Steve was sure of that much, but he didn’t make any attempt to end the ruse.


	3. Chapter 3

Part 3

 

After about two weeks into living together, Steve decided that Bucky must not have been very serious about wanting to learn sign. Besides “good night” and “good morning,” he had only learned the signs for “coffee” and “sleep.” Steve tried not to feel too damned disappointed about it, but he was! On top of not learning signs, Bucky was just about nocturnal. Steve only saw him awake for a few minutes and then after dinner, he would go directly to his typewriter--the same damned place Steve often found him in the morning. He had really thought they could be good friends and that he could feel truly at home somewhere--with someone again--but the fancy new apartment was beginning to feel just as lonely as his old room had. The loss of that dream hurt more than he really wanted to admit. 

All of that changed the day when he walked through the door one day and see to Bucky sign “ _ welcome home.” _ A book on signing was laying open on the table in front of him, and Steve felt like his knees were going to buckle right out from under him. Frowning, Bucky looked at the book again and repeated the signs slower. “Did I do it wrong?” he asked when Steve still didn’t respond.

Steve snapped himself out of his fog and shook his head. He dropped himself to the empty seat next to Bucky’s and noted that the pad was already waiting there with a pencil.  **I thought you changed your mind,** he admitted, feeling heat rise to his cheeks.

Bucky rolled his eyes and chuckled.  **I was waiting for the book.**

**You don’t learn sign from a book.** This time, it was Steve who was laughing--not only at the fact that his roommate actually thought a book could teach him something that was beyond just illustrations on a page, but because Steve’d been brooding over the whole thing for two damned weeks.  _ You learn from me,  _ he signed slowly.

For the rest of the night, they worked on the alphabet. Steve pointed to objects and had Bucky spell them out. It was slow work, and Bucky stared at his hand the whole time he spelled out the simple words, but each word was coming quicker and more confidently.

From there things moved swiftly. Everyday, Bucky was adding new words to his signing vocabulary. He still spelled out a good many words, but they were soon able to hold simple conversations without the notepad. It was funny how something so tiny--something that Steve relied on almost every day of his life since he’d been six--could have been weighing on them, but the first day they went without using it at all it felt like an elephant had been lifted from his chest. It had taken them into the first week of June to get to that point, and it felt like an occasion they should celebrate. 

When Steve suggested they go out the next night for a beer, Bucky seemed to shy away a bit. As deaf as he was, Steve sure as Hell wasn’t blind. It hadn’t escaped him how little Bucky left the apartment. At first, he’d chalked it up to Bucky not being able to make it out of the building without his crutches--which he’d assumed Bucky couldn’t afford to replace easily--but he’d received a new pair weeks ago. As far as Steve knew, Bucky had only made a trip to Queens to visit his parents and a couple others to the library or post office. He socialized even less than Steve did. When Steve broached the topic not long after they’d begun signing, Bucky merely shrugged it off as a writer’s quirk, but Steve knew it was more than that. 

It was funny how alike and different Bucky and Steve were. They had both lost something to their illness, but Steve actually felt like he had gained in a way too. His deafness connected him to people he would never have met otherwise. It gave him a language and a culture that was unique. True, it also set him apart from the hearing majority in ways that he couldn’t fully breach. Bucky, on the other hand, had no problems communicating, but was physically barred from most places in his chair and even a few still with his crutches. There was no sense of community in being handicapped for him. He was adrift it seemed. The loneliness of the thought made Steve’s stomach clench.

Still, when they went out together for errands, he seemed to slide seamlessly into conversations while doing his best to include Steve. He had a way of putting others at ease that seeped into their very bones.Steve had a lifetime of reading people’s body language and the changes that Bucky could make in them was nothing short of miraculous. People began with their usual stiff smiles and unsure posture when they first met them, but a minute or two in, Bucky turned those smiles into creased, mirthful expressions and their posture loosened and opened. It was the kind of thing that people could rarely fake. Heck, after no more than five minutes, people even began to look at Steve with that ease as well. They didn’t shout or turn away quickly when he tried to talk to them with his gestures or his pad. That was why it shocked Steve when Bucky didn’t like the idea of going out to celebrate his signing.

_ Later,  _ he signed, his lips pursed into a straight line.  _ Too many mistakes now.  _

_ No. Tomorrow. You’re doing great,  _ Steve assured him. 

Bucky frowned.  _ Before…  _ he started and then paused. It wasn’t unusual for him to take a long time to think of the signs for what he wanted to say, but this was different. 

_ Before what?  _ Steve prompted. He sat down on his bed so he was eye level with Bucky. Communicating always seemed easier when he was looking into Bucky’s eyes. It had nothing to do with signing or speaking. It was something more complicated than that.

Bucky took a deep breath.  _ Before you. Before I got…  _ He paused again and fingerspelled out the word,   _ beaten. I don’t know. _

_ Are you scared?  _ Steve asked.

_ Yes. No. I don’t know.  _ Bucky shrugged.

It was funny how little Steve had thought about the circumstances they met under. Bucky had seemed to bounce back from the beating so easily that he’d never questioned it. In fact, he’d never questioned why the beating had taken place to begin with. Steve had been in dozens of fights in his lifetime. He’d never been one to back down and smoothing things over with words with hearing guys… But Bucky was a natural charmer. Someone with a brain as sharp as Bucky’s and a tongue so slick should have been able to talk his way out of it. Steve was just about to ask about the fight when Bucky broke his train of thought.

_ Another time? _ He asked.

Not wanting to push, Steve nodded.

Over the next months, “another time” never came.

In a blink, October faded into November. The chill in the air made Steve’s nose run just a bit, but a cold settled into Bucky’s chest with a vengeance. When he coughed, his entire body trembled in a way that reminded Steve too much of his mother. He tried his best not to hover or pile extra blankets over Bucky’s lap, but it was near impossible to not worry. Usually, Bucky would roll his eyes and sign “ _ silly _ ”--his favorite thing to call Steve since learning the word. Still, despite Buck’s assurances that he was fine, Steve’s gut told him that this wasn’t fine. Bucky was getting worse by the day, not better.

One evening, Steve came home to find Becca wringing her hands at the kitchen table. She slid a note to over to let him know that the doctor was examining Bucky in the bedroom. Steve’s face must have given away his nerves, because Becca forced a fake smile and grabbed the pad once more.  **Don’t worry. He usually takes sick once in the fall and once in the spring.**

Steve pulled out a seat beside Becca and forced thumbs up as real as her smile.

It was a good twenty minutes before the doctor came out. The look on his lined face was grim, and Steve’s heart wedged in his throat. He didn’t catch what the doctor said as he moved to door. Beside him, Becca looked bit her lip and nodded along as the doctor spoke, but made no move to let Steve know what was going on. Without bothering to try to get the pair to explain, Steve headed back the hall to the bedroom to see for himself.

He opened the door, hoping to see Bucky looking just as he had that morning; sickly and grumpy, but far from death’s door. Instead, he was lying back on a pile of pillows looking just as pale as the sheets. Steve had noticed Bucky losing a bit of weight and circles forming beneath his usually sharp eyes, but there was something about his pallor that made both features stand out. For the first time since Steve had met him, Bucky looked weak and frail. 

He gave Steve a half smile that was cut off with by a racking cough.

Rushing to grab the glass of water on the bedside table, Steve helped steady Bucky into a sitting position. Bucky’s hand was trembling so bad that Steve didn’t remove his own from the glass as the sick man drank. The clammy feel of Bucky’s skin beneath Steve’s own wasn’t a surprise but it still sent a jolt of awareness through him. Bucky laid back on the pillows and pulled his hand out from under the covers to make the sign for “sorry” over his heart.

_ For what?  _ Steve asked, settling on the edge of the bed. 

Biting his lip, Bucky gave an exhausted shrug. He pointed to the pocket that Steve’s pad was hanging out of.  **No one wants to live with the sickly guy. I suppose I should have mentioned earlier that my lungs are nearly as weak as my legs. The doc wants me on bedrest for at least a week. If that changes things, I understand.**

Steve’s jaw actually hung open when he finished reading the note. His heart ached in his chest. How could Bucky actually think that Steve was that shallow? Didn’t he know how much he meant to Steve? Didn’t he know… Shame hit Steve like sucker punch to the gut. No, Bucky wouldn’t know how much he meant to him. Steve had never told him. For as much as they’d talked since Bucky began learning signs, he’d said very little about himself beyond the basics and Steve hadn’t asked. 

_ Nothing has changed. You are the best friend I have ever had,  _ Steve signed. He made damn sure to put as much emphasis on the words “best” and “friend” as he possibly could. Bucky’s eyes widened, but he didn’t say anything so Steve continued.  _ I should have told you sooner. I thought you knew what you mean to me. _

Bucky’s head dipped for a split second, and when he raised his eyes again, there was a look to them that said clearly that he’d had no clue.  _  What do I mean to you? _

_ Everything.  _ Steve’s hands had moved before he could think, and he was suddenly afraid he had just ruined things between them. His mind raced to think of some way to make his declaration seem less queer than it truly was, but he couldn’t. Luckily, Bucky’s attention was quickly drawn to the door. 

Becca stood in the doorway with her lips pressed in a fine line and daggers in her eyes. It didn’t take a single word for Steve to know that he was standing in the middle of an impending argument. He hooked his chin to the exit and took his leave. 

Feeling like his insides had been tossed around inside a cement mixer, Steve tried to distract himself by drawing. Weeks earlier, Bucky had moved the things that had been lying on the art table and told Steve to go ahead and use it, and he’d wasted little time. He found that he actually really liked drawing on the angled desk more than he did on any flat surface. Usually, the mere act of sitting at the desk brought about a sense of inspiration, but that day he couldn't think of a damn thing to draw on his own. With a frustrated sigh, he reached for one of the comic books that Bucky had stacked on the top of the bookshelf. Sometimes flipping through other people’s work gave him ideas. The particular book Steve had picked up that day, though, wasn’t particularly well drawn. The character’s muscles looked like nothing more than lumps underneath the edges of his clothes and the coloring was flat. With a snort, Steve decided that he would simply redraw the character just to prove to himself that he could do better. He had no sooner put the first bits of shading in when a hand touched his shoulder, jolting him from his work. 

Becca didn’t look any happier then than she had when she’d come into Bucky’s room. “I am going home,” she said. “I left a pot of soup on the stove.”

Steve stood and retrieved her coat for her. He was tempted to grab his pad and ask her why she was so angry, but it didn’t seem like something he should get in the middle of. Family was family, and despite their closeness, Steve wasn’t Bucky’s family.

On her way passed, Becca eyed him for a long moment. “Don’t let him push you away.”

Bucky slept most of that evening and on through the night. The couple times he got up to go to the bathroom, his arms shook with the effort of getting himself from the bed to the chair and back again. It took all of Steve’s willpower not to help him into his chair and then push him to the bathroom, but he knew that Bucky’s dignity wouldn’t fair well if he did.

The next day was Sunday, and Steve was relieved that he wasn’t going to have to leave Bucky for the day. While Bucky slept on, Steve made himself an egg before putting together toast and porridge. They didn’t have a tray to set it on, so he simply wrapped a baking sheet in a towel and carried them to the bedroom. He had mixed feelings about waking Bucky, but he had only grimaced at Steve’s urgings to try some soup the previous night. 

Bucky raised his head when Steve knocked on the door and pushed himself unsteadily into a sitting position. He eyed the tray reluctantly, but dutifully took a sip of the tea and a bite of porridge.Without much enthusiasm, Bucky ate half a slice of toast and a decent amount of porridge before sliding the tray on the bedside stand. He did drink all of the tea, at least.

_ Thank you. No church?  _ He asked.

Steve shook his head and took a seat in Bucky’s unoccupied chair. Normally, he went to a service for the deaf at a nearby Methodist church. He’d been raised Catholic and didn’t have a strong religious feeling one way or the other, but it was a good way to keep in touch with deaf friends and he went most Sundays. A time or two he’d even invited Bucky along--invites that had always been turned down. 

_ You should go. My mother will be by soon.  _ Bucky crossed his eyes for effect.  _ She thinks I’m still five. _

_ She loves you,  _ Steve said, thinking of his own mother.

Bucky’s lips quirked up and he shrugged.  _ She wants me to move back home again. We fight about it. She worries I will fall or get sick. She worries too much.  _

_ Tell her I will take care of you.  _

Steve had meant the declaration to show that he too cared, but the look on Bucky’s face was wrought with anguish and rage. His jaw clenched and for a brief moment, Steve thought that Bucky was going to tell him off. Instead, he looked Steve dead in the eye.  _ Go to church. I don’t need you.  _

  
  



End file.
